by Beth Ciotta
“What would Calamity Jane do?” She’d show some backbone, handle her own mess. She’d make things right.
Emily tied off her braids then reached under her riding skirt and strapped her new holster and gun to her leg. “Whether Pinkerton accepts or declines your proposal, your life starts today.”
In order for Emily McBride to live, I. M. Wilde needed to die.
For the second morning in a row, Seth woke in a lousy mood. Something had shifted in Emily with the arrival of the Garretts. She’d grown distant. Even Mrs. Dunlap voiced concern when Emily had begged off joining them in the sitting room for more chapters of Around the World in Eighty Days. She’d claimed exhaustion, blaming the long journey to Napa City.
He knew a lie when he heard one.
He’d checked in on her an hour later, a soft rap on the door, a gentle inquiry. She didn’t open the door, but she answered. Again, she claimed to be fine, merely spent. Were that so, he’d thought, she’d be asleep by now. He didn’t press, but he did ponder her sudden taciturnity. The pondering affected his own sleep, making him surly.
This morning she was just as pensive. Seth figured she was either fretting over his decision regarding her proposal or regretting that she ever asked. Fact of the matter was she’d had a life-long crush on Rome Garrett. Was laying eyes on the man all she needed to deem Pinkerton a passing fancy? The thought chafed, making him pensive as well.
Breakfast was a somber affair.
Sensitive to the tension, Mrs. Dunlap ate quickly then excused herself. She mumbled something about spring cleaning despite being well into summer.
Once alone, he attempted conversation. “You look tired, Emily. Maybe you should beg off work. I’m sure Mrs. Frisbie would understand.”
“I wouldn’t dream of missing two days in a row. I’m fine. Honest.” She stood and rinsed her plate.
So much for conversation.
A half an hour later they were on their way to town. He’d opted for the buggy, forcing Emily to sit next to him. Mentally, she was miles away. Was she thinking of Rome? Jealousy snaked through Seth and sank its fangs into his heart. How the hell was he going to feel when she was wearing Athens’s ring? Sleeping in his bed?
Her continued silence pricked his temper. He gritted his teeth against the vibrating tension, kept waiting for her to bring up her proposal. He’d slept on it. They were alone. What was she waiting for?
He sighted the picturesque town of Heaven. Moments from now he’d drop Emily at the library. He’d be damned if he’d spend the next few hours stewing on the source of her quiet mood.
“I want you to know that I value your friendship, Em.” He spoke from the heart even though his heart wasn’t in it. “Your happiness, your welfare, is of fierce concern to me.”
“You’re turning down my proposal.”
She didn’t sound surprised or upset. More like resigned. “Though tempting,” he said, carefully choosing his words, “a union, such as you suggested, is impossible for numerous reasons.”
“I understand.”
He didn’t want her to understand. He wanted an argument, dammit. The fangs sank deeper. He cursed his venomous thoughts, refusing to let jealousy rule his actions. “We can’t choose who we’re attracted to” She couldn’t help wanting Rome.
Seth wrestled with turbulent feelings as he pulled up in front of the library. She’s not rejecting you, he told himself. She’s rejecting Phineas Pinkerton. She slept on it and she’s taking your advice, holding out for that fully committed relationship. Well, hell.
She surprised him by reaching over and squeezing his hand. “Your happiness and welfare are of fierce concern to me, too.” Her voice was steady, her gaze bright with compassion. “You’re not a poet at heart. You’re a warrior. A man born to detect and protect. I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of living a lie.”
Had the Garretts betrayed him or had she drawn her own conclusions? He felt as though he’d been buffaloed.
She broke contact to take off the necklace she wore daily. “I want you to know the real me.” Fingers trembling, she opened the locket and withdrew a small key. “This will unlock my desk. You’ll find my journal in there. It’s actually the latest draft of my swashbuckling story. You’ll also find another key. It will unlock a chest I hid in the hayloft. That chest contains my life’s work. I want to set things right and I’m starting with you.”
She pressed the key into his hand, kissed his cheek, and whispered into his ear, “Love isn’t always perfect, but it’s never wrong. I love you, Poet.”
He stared at her, heart hammering. Of all the things she could have said, that was the one thing which rendered him speechless.
She scrambled out of the buggy and into the library, while he sat like an idiot trying to regain use of his mind and body. She loved him. How in the hell was he supposed to ignore that?
“I’m tired of living a lie.”
The statement resonated with him. Like her, he aimed on setting things right.
He pocketed the key, a revised mission in mind as he steered Guinevere toward the Garrett estate. Still concerned for Emily’s safety, someone needed to watch over her while he did her bidding. He was eager to read what she’d felt compelled to lock away. Beyond the thrill of getting to know the real Emily McBride was the anticipation of discovering the blackmailer’s fodder. Surely the two were connected.
Purpose surged through his body, intensifying his focus. He was going to track and squash that bastard like a bug.
Next step: The proposal.
CHAPTER 23
Emily may as well have missed another day for all the good she was to Mrs. Frisbie. It took twice as long to re-shelve newly returned books because her mind kept drifting. He would arrive back at her house any minute. What would he think when he read her work? Would he be more shocked by her attempts at writing erotic scenes or by learning that she was I. M. Wilde?
She’d wanted him to know the truth first, but she couldn’t be there when he read it. She also wanted him to know her heart. The new Emily didn’t repress anymore. She attacked life with honesty and courage. That’s why she’d blurted her feelings. Knowing they didn’t have a chance at a normal man/woman relationship didn’t diminish them. She was in love with the man. She could only wonder how he would feel about her after he read her secrets.
Nervous energy made her clumsy. The third time she knocked something over, causing a ruckus and disturbing the patrons, Mrs. Frisbie interceded. “Emily, dear, I’m wondering if you’d mind walking over to the mercantile and collecting our mail. I never made it yesterday.”
She gave Mrs. Frisbie a sheepish smile. “I’m sorry about. . .everything. I’m distracted.”
“Maybe some fresh air will help.” The woman patted her on the shoulder and steered her to the door. “Take your time.”
She appreciated the break, a chance to walk off her anxiety. Eventually, she’d confide in Mrs. Frisbee. First she needed to make amends with Rome and Boston. Directly after work, she told herself. Surely she’d summon up the nerve by then.
Deep in thought, she nearly plowed into Mary Lee Dobbs when the woman stepped in her path.
“Well, if it isn’t Bookworm McBride. Surprised to see you out and about alone. I was beginning to think you and Mr. Pinkerton were joined at the hip. From what I’ve seen and heard, well . . .” She laughed, a mean-spirited laugh that implied she had dirt on Emily. “I’m impressed, truly. Turning the head of a Nancy boy. Who would have thought you had it in you?”
Steam formed between Emily’s ears. “I don’t think--”
“Question is, how far have you gone? Kissing? Fondling? How convenient that he’s staying at your house. Even if Dotty Dunlap witnessed anything inappropriate, she’d forget three seconds later.”
Emily balled her fists at her side. Sticks and stones, she told herself. Only it wasn’t the attack on her reputation that burned. It was the attack on her friends. “Name calling is cruel, Mary Lee,” she said, heedless o
f the gathering crowd. “I can think of a dozen names befitting you, such as spiteful shrew or scheming slut, but I would never address you as such as it would be insensitive.”
Some gasped. Some chuckled. Mr. and Mrs. Thompson stepped outside, no doubt curious why the mob gathered in front of their store.
Mary Lee glowered. “How dare you speak to me like that!”
“How dare you judge others?” Once Emily’s words were out, protecting her friends, she began to feel more in control. As though the words she spoke had been waiting there all along.
“You’re carrying on with a . . . a degenerate!”
“Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.”
Mary Lee’s eyes bugged.
Words like adulterer and gold-digger emerged from the whispering crowd. Emily wasn’t the only one wise to Mary Lee’s sinful behavior and now Mary Lee knew it. Her face turned purple. “You crazy, spiteful bitch!”
Emily cocked a brow at the woman dressed in her frou-frou finery. A gown bought by her loving husband. A man she constantly cheated on. This is for you Mr. Dobbs. “Never speak in the heat of anger, Mary Lee. Let me help you cool off.” With the aid of frustrated years behind her, she shoved the woman into a horse trough.
Water splashed the closest gawkers, who whooped and applauded while Mary Lee flailed. She came up sputtering and spewing unladylike curses. “You’re going to regret that,” she shrieked as Emily shouldered her way through the crowd.
“Neither do I condemn thee,” she said, quoting the bible as she entered the mercantile. “Go and sin no more.”
Her pulse raced as she approached the counter. She readjusted her spectacles. She’d never acted out like that in her life, but Mary Lee had pushed her beyond her limits.
“That’s been a long time in coming,” Mr. Thompson said rounding the counter.
“I feel kind of bad,” Emily said. Though not bad enough to apologize.
“Don’t,” Mrs. Thompson said. “Only reason folks put up with that witch is because they like Mr. Dobbs. Maybe you did her a favor,” the woman said as she reorganized a shelf of pots and pans. “Maybe she’ll think twice before taking up with another cowhand. Oh, yes,” she added. “Most everyone knows.”
“She thinks she’s being discreet,” Mr. Thompson said, “but a couple of those boys kissed and bragged. A few beers over at Percy’s and their jaws start flappin’“
Emily swallowed. “Do you think Mr. Dobbs knows?”
Mr. Thompson sighed. “Don’t see how he can’t. I’m thinking he turns a blind eye. Part pride. Part not wanting to lose her.”
Yesterday, she’d told Pinkerton that as long as he was discreet she could endure his seeing other people. Today, she knew that to be false. She didn’t need a wedding ring, but she did need a full commitment. He’d been right to decline her proposal, though the knowledge didn’t soothe her broken heart.
“What can I do for you, Emily?”
She blinked at Mr. Thompson. “Oh. The mail. For the library.”
“Nothing today.”
“Anything for me?” She braced herself for another threatening letter.
“Nope.”
She nearly sagged with relief. She exited the mercantile, also relieved to find the crowd had dispersed and Mary Lee was gone. A trail of soggy footprints suggested she’d marched home. Smiling, Emily turned for the library pondering the townsfolk’s reaction to the scene. They’d actually been on Emily’s side. It stupefied her.
“Miss McBride!” Sheriff McDonald waved her down. “Just heading over to see you. I was going through my mail, which tends to pile up, and I came across this.” He passed her a letter. “Got mixed with mine. McBride. McDonald. Easy mistake.” He scratched his forehead. “Don’t know how long it’s been there. Hope it ain’t important.”
The red seal filled her with dread. “Thank you, Sheriff.”
“Sure thing.” He tipped his hat and ambled away. She tore open the letter.
MEET ME IN SAN FRANCISCO.
BEESLOW’S LIFE IS AT STAKE.
YOUR SAVIOR.
He included an address and a time to meet. She readjusted her spectacles, heart pounding, thinking she’d misread. She hadn’t.
“Oh, no. I’m late.” She sprinted toward the bank.
“This is bad.”
“Maybe not.” Rome saddled his horse. They’d been watching Emily all morning at the request of Seth Wright. He’d knocked heads with the man when they first met, months back. They had different ideas on justice. Still, he respected Seth’s reputation and he was his brother-in-law’s best friend. He felt obliged to give him some leeway. If he were anyone else, he would’ve cold cocked him last night. He may not have touched Emily, but he sure as hell seduced her. He himself had seen that look in many a woman’s eye.
“You saw her expression when she read that letter. She withdrew money from the bank then hightailed it to the livery and talked Chet into loaning her a horse that he has to make arrangements to pick up in Napa.” Boston tightened the cinch on his Mustang. “Still can’t believe how she sold him on that notion.”
“She told Paris how to elude us when she ran away from home,” Rome reminded him. “She’s a bright girl.”
“She’s reckless. Heading for San Francisco on her own. You know damn well she’s meeting her black-mailer. How is that good?”
“As soon as she makes contact, we’ll kick his ass.” Rome swung into the saddle. “Ride out and let Seth know. I’ll track her. You know where we’re headed.”
Boston mounted, shot his brother a thoughtful look. “He’s sweet on her, you know.”
Rome raised a sardonic brow. “Ya think?”
He’d meant only to glance at her journal, a leather binder stuffed with fifty or so handwritten pages. But once he started reading, he couldn’t put it down. Constance and Antonio grabbed him and didn’t let go. He’d suspected that Emily had talent, but he never imagined this.
With carefully chosen words, she swept him away to the Caribbean islands. She wrote as though she’d been there herself. Weaving the reader along the glittering coastline in a creaking schooner. The tropical sun beating down on a bared, tanned shoulder, begging to be kissed.
He’d dropped into a chair when he came to that love scene. Antonio and Constance’s first kiss. Only two paragraphs with fairly tame wording, but he’d broken into a sweat. She’d skillfully described a boner-inducing kiss.
Christ. This is what he’d inspired?
He could feel the couple’s passion, and because he cared about them, related to them, he kept reading. He was disappointed when he reached the end, because it wasn’t the end. This was only the beginning of their adventure.
In awe of Emily’s storytelling, he carefully replaced the pages into the binder and returned the journal to the desk. He found the second key and hastened to the barn, assuring Mrs. Dunlap for the third time that he was fine. Better than fine, he was intrigued. He couldn’t wait to read more.
Once he climbed into the hayloft, he easily located the chest. His palms were slick with sweat when he unlocked it and opened the lid. His heart pounded with anticipation when he noted a few books and several journals. Her life’s work.
First he skimmed the books. The first two were explicit, though scientific, studies on human sexuality. The third, an art book, probably supplied by that bastard Herman Beeslow. Some of the sketches dated back several centuries and depicted graphic, creative sexual positions.
“Holy shit.”
What kind of a man supplied a reputable, young woman with graphic material? Had Beeslow no scruples? At the same time he admired Emily’s conviction to her art. She didn’t know the particulars of man/ woman relations, so she’d researched the facts. Had she been shocked? Titillated? Given her passionate response to his kiss, probably a little of both.
Smiling, he set aside the books and examined the first layer of manuscript pages. Different versions of the story he’d just read and--whoa--extreme versions of
the love scene. Explicit words. But the more he read, he realized there was no . . . passion. There were pages and pages of erotic passages. Her research showed, but Constance and Antonio lacked a real connection. Regardless, the material was pretty damned scandalous.
This is what the blackmailer had on her.
This constituted tawdry.
He dug deeper and found several different stories, much tamer, but all full of adventure and romance. The handwriting differed at times. These, he assumed, were written when she was younger. Curious, he flipped through pages looking for the story on the skinny-dipping knight.
He dug deeper. What he found were stories about Rome and Boston Garrett. Handwritten drafts of stories he’d read in dime novels. Adventures written by--
Son of a bitch.
The erotica was tame compared to this explosive revelation.
The sounds of an approaching horse and the shout of his name punched through the haze of his paralyzing shock. He shoved everything back into the chest, locked it, and pocketed the key. He hustled down the ladder. “In here!”
Outside the open barn doors, chunks of grass and dirt flew as Boston Garrett reined in his horse. He’d been riding fast and hard. “Mount up,” he said, expression grave. “Emily’s taken things into her own hands.”
CHAPTER 24
Territory of Arizona
Athens glanced from the telegram about his marriage to the article about his brothers. Toss up as to which irritated him more. He wasn’t surprised Rome had seduced another man’s wife, just that he hadn’t been smarter about it. Athens had faced off against Osprey Smith over legislation in the past. The senator was a ruthless blowhard with full pockets and an uncanny ability to get his way. Rome had gotten off easy with the suspension.
